Me and Me
Page 8
“Sure. That sounds good.”
I listen to Wyvern Lingo on the way home. Their voices calm me, make everything seem less spun out.
When I get home, I find Lucy sitting next to my dad on the front porch in the quiet evening. The smoke of a nearby bonfire drifts over.
“You’re not supposed to be out of bed,” I say to my dad. “You,” I say to Lucy, “should have sent him back upstairs.” I haven’t seen her for a few days, and I’d forgotten how nice it is to have her around.
Dad stands and stretches like a cat. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a little fresh air won’t fix. I actually feel much better than I did lying around in bed. Oh, and I ended up finding a couple of other pages with notes from the same song, I think.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to go for a walk. I’ve got a hankering for one of those sports drinks.”
“You should have told me. I’d have picked one up for you.”
“I did tell you.”
I check my phone. There’s a message from him there. “Sorry, I missed it.”
He starts down the path.
“Dad, let me get it for you.”
“Stop, Lark. Everything’s fine.”
Lucy passes me a bag of chocolate-covered raisins. “I bought you these.”
Mom used to love these chocolate-covered raisins. I’d forgotten, but we used to bring them to the hospital, and she’d put one in her mouth and let it dissolve on her tongue. Sometimes they made her throw up, but when she felt a bit better, she’d pop in another one.
“Thanks.”
I think about Alec in the park. The horrible video. Who could have sent it? Why? How? Oh God. I hope I wasn’t too crazy for him. But he said everything was fine, that I was perfect. I’m glad he’s coming by later.
“You can talk to me, you know?”
“Talk about what? Sorry, I was just thinking about Alec.”
“I bet you were.” There’s an edge to Lucy’s voice. “You know, Lark, I’m trying to find a higher meaning in all this, but if you won’t even talk to me, I can’t figure out what that higher meaning is.”
“What higher meaning?”
“I know you’re going through a lot.” The words spill from her. “I understand about your dad. For sure. But I’m getting the sense—something weird is going on with you. You and Alec, okay I get it, you’re in lurve. But it’s you. You’re different. Is something wrong? I just want you to talk to me.”
I stand and rub my head. “I don’t really know what you mean by different.”
She stands too. “Neither do I. It’s just this sensation I’m getting—a vibe.”
Alec:
You okay? I can’t make it tonight—sorry.
Gonna be here a while with my truck.
Lark:
Never mind.
Xxx
I hold up my phone to show her. “Do you think Alec’s avoiding me or genuinely having to deal with his truck? I was a bit, er, full-on at the park.”
She doesn’t look at the screen. “Lark—we’re in the middle of talking . . .”
“Talking?”
“About what’s wrong with you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just dealing with stuff with my dad, with some stress since the accident at the lake.” I watch her purse her lips, which means she’s trying to keep herself calm. “This is not about you, Lucy.”
“I’m not trying to make it about me.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Will you listen to yourself, Lark? I try to be the best friend to you that I can, but you don’t make it easy.”
“Just back off, Lucy.”
Her face widens in surprise.
Dad appears at the end of the path drinking a sports drink. “You girls okay?”
“Fine,” I say, thrumming with irritation.
Dad walks past us into the house. “Don’t you have homework, kids? When I was young, I had so much homework.”
“I’ve done it,” Lucy replies. She picks up her bag and checks her phone. “But I do have to get to D’Lish. I’m going to be late.”
I check mine too.
Alec:
See you tomorrow, babe.
Hope my crazy girl’s okay xxxx
“Homework. You’re right, Dad.” I don’t even bother saying goodbye to Lucy. I can’t believe she’s giving me a hard time, with everything else that’s been going on.
I follow Dad inside, where I hurry up to my room. There I find the song notes from Mom that he’s put on my bed. So, forgetting Lucy and her issues, I begin to read.
Day 29: Saturday, early
I wake early with my mind playing a melody to Mom’s song lyrics. The last few days and nights, I’ve been replaying the words in my head. They’ve slithered into my dreams and made me distracted and forgetful at school, around Alec. I’ve also been Googling endless stuff about other people’s phone glitches to see if anyone else in the world has ever had messages like the ones I’ve received—I had six earlier in the week, but no other videos, and nothing in the last two days.
I reach for the three handwritten yellowed pages again. Her words are squashed in all over the place, and they don’t follow the lines on the paper. Some of the words have been hard to make out among the doodles and arrows everywhere. It’s how she wrote her lyrics; I remember watching her do it. But the song tugs at me—I feel like I’m not understanding something.
I flick through her pages. The last words I have are: I’m so sorry, baby.
Before that, there’s a cramped scribble that reads:
I’m struggling to get it in words
Struggling too
To make it
To make it make sense
The words I’m looking for, in the dream
a second world, another life
I could have lived
Parallel you
Parallel me
Just the way it needs to be
You, me, if only . . .
I groan and put aside the pages. I open up the notebook on my phone, start trying to write a song myself. The band have been pressuring me to come up with something. Sometimes songs appear swiftly; if I give myself five minutes, something happens. But this time, nothing comes. I can’t just make a song appear out of thin air, and the air around my songwriting has been very, very thin. I check to see if Dolphin has replied. I feel bad about asking her for help now things are weird with Lucy, but Dolphin might have insights on Mom’s song—the song I can’t get out of my head.
A voice behind me makes me jump. “Lark?” It’s Alec, looming in the doorway of my room. “Your dad let me in,” he says. “What are you up to?”
I gesture to the pad of paper with scribbles on it—arrows and words to indicate sounds and song. “Trying to write. Meh. Nifty gave me a hard time again the other day. Said I needed to get them something new for Lydia’s.”
He sits on the bed, the mattress dipping underneath him. “Is it difficult? I mean, writing a song? How do you even start something like that?”
“You really want to know?” I ask.
“I do.”
I pick up my pen while I talk. “The challenge is that you only have so much time and space. It’s related to poetry in that way . . .” I warm to my subject. “In a song, I’m trying to say the maximum with the fewest words. But at the same time, there are differences between poetry writing and songwriting—you’re actually singing or playing.”
“That makes sense.”
I go to sit next to him. He smells of woodsmoke and mint.
“The trick of trying to make a song come alive is reminding myself it’s not meant to be on the page.”
“What does that mean?” Alec takes my wrist. Really slowly he turns my palm up. He kisses the point where the doctor takes a pulse.
My heart quickens. “I mean that, for example, a song like “I Want to Hold Your Hand” is a brilliant pop song, but you put those lyrics on the page, and it looks—goofy.
It’s not meant to be read. A songwriter has to understand there’s more dimensions to what they’re doing—what the background is going to be like, how the band’s going to fill out the song, what type of song it is. They also have to understand what a good hook is and why it works.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My mom.” Her soft voice whispers to me through time, and for a moment I hear her sing. I say, “Not that I’m doing any songwriting.” I show him the blank page. “I haven’t written a single line of a song since the day at the lake. Even though I’ve been trying—it’s like I’m stuck. Writer’s block. Urgh.” I run my hand over his hair. “Now, your turn. You seem a little . . . quiet.”
“I’m dealing with some stuff with my parents,” he whispers into my hair. “Lark, I want to tell you . . .”
“But?”
He tips my face up to his and stares at me. His eyes lock on mine.
My cell interrupts.
“It’s okay. Deal with that.”
“No, it doesn’t matter. The stupid phone can wait,” I say, though I hope it might be Dolphin.
“I don’t really want to talk anyway.”
“I’m here when you’re ready.” I turn to my cell.
Tish:
Can you come in at 11?
“Tish just gave me a shift. I bailed on the last couple because of . . . stuff. But if you don’t mind . . . I really could do with the money.”
He reads the message over my shoulder. “Sure. We’ve got time before you start. Let’s do something fun. You. Me. This room. How about it?”
“If I miss another shift, she might actually fire me.”
“We’ve got loads of time. Trust me, baby.”
. . . sleep is secretly stealing him
without him even realizing . . .
“I haven’t had one of these for a couple of days,” I say.
“Another weird message?”
“Just when I’m not expecting it. I don’t even know what that one meant. Like, at all.” Again, I have the feeling that I’m missing something urgent.
“Let me help you take your mind off . . .”
I smile at him, inviting. Alec catches my look, and it ignites something in him—the spark between us, something. He pushes me down onto the bed. Before I can take a breath, he climbs on top of me, tongue and hands exploring my face, my body.
“Hey, hey,” I say, as he starts to kiss my neck. Tingles cascade through my body. But my head isn’t quite there. “Easy, tiger,” I say, pushing both hands against his chest.
“What are we waiting for?” He groans. He grips my hands above my head, easily, with one of his hands. He has me locked down with his knees on either side of me, and he slowly unbuttons my shirt.
“Alec, stop.”
“You mean it?” he whispers, licking under my ear.
Oh, it feels so good. But I squirm. “You know I want to too, just not now . . .”
“All right, all right,” he says, climbing off me.
“Just give me a little more time. Please? I’m just—It’s the weird messages . . .”
“I guess I’m not distracting enough . . .” He flexes his muscles. “Though some women would go wild for this.”
“I am wild for this.” I giggle.
He stands up and moves toward the door. “You get ready for work. Then I can’t be blamed for you not showing up.”
“I’ve still got two hours!”
“I’m going to go train with the others. Work off my frustrations . . .” he says and grins. “You drive me wild.” He blows me a kiss at the doorway.
I give up on songwriting and message Nifty apologizing—again—for not coming to band practice on Wednesday and for not having a song for him yet. I wonder if maybe I should just tell the band I don’t want to be a part of the show this time. Maybe the next one. But no, I should do the show, if only to get me out of this weird headspace.
I grab a denim jacket and go outside, the cool grey air waking me up. I’ve spent lots of time, especially after school, walking alone by the river, feeling winter coming and wondering if I am going crazy, debating over and over whether the messages are really there at all . . . But then, how do I explain the fact that Dad saw one of them?
Lark:
Ready, but too early for work now :-(
Alec:
Why don’t you come train with me before you go?
By the river—
walkway under Victoria Bridge.
Lark:
Coming.
A text comes in:
Dolphin:
I’m away at a retreat this week.
How about next Tuesday evening?
I check my schedule and text straight back.
Lark:
Of course.
I’ll come by after work.
Around 9:30?
I haven’t seen you for ages.
Dolphin:
You’re right. It’s been too long.
9:30 is perfect.
I hear Alec’s friends talking before I come upon them. I would normally go this way when doing flips. Aim for the grass, then right back. They come into view: Tyler, Logan and Jordan standing around at the edge of the bridge along a walkway with several rails and a wall a little taller than Alec. In the light breeze, I hear Logan saying I don’t think I ever actually tried this before. He runs, jumps, somersaults and lands on both feet on a narrow ledge.
As I approach them, a few drops of rain spatter me. A large truck roars by on the bridge. A couple of other guys wearing baggy pants and colourful sneakers, farther down by the river, are saying, Don’t land on the edge, man. That’s scary stuff. They’re filming each other.
I look at Alec. He does his slow smile. For a moment, we’re the only people there.
Then, like a lynx, he jumps onto a rail. “My main goal is to get a good grip in a cat leap,” he says to Tyler.
“You’re thinking too much,” Tyler says.
Alec jumps down.
I kiss him hello. “Can I try something today?”
“Sure. Try the basic stuff to warm up, Lark, rolling, climbing. Then we can do some vaults.”
I do all that, and he teaches me a wall climb. He links his fingers, so I have a foothold, and I scuffle and scrabble against the wall, feeling pleased when I pull myself up on the third try. Alec practises something called kong vaults over a smaller wall. I manage a cool stunt where I bounce off a corner wall, my feet slamming into it. Then I try a few more wall climbs until my hands are sore. When I jump down, Alec catches me before I hit the ground. He hugs me close and then pulls back.
“Good try, babe. And look”—he tips my chin so he’s looking into my eyes—“if I was pushing too hard earlier—”
“You weren’t.”
“I’ve been kind of stressed but . . . anyway, you take the time you need.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to.”
“I know. How could you not want to?” He says it as a joke, but he looks vulnerable.
I kiss him, pulling him close to me, conveying with my mouth and body how I feel. “I should get to work.”
“Come meet me later, after you’re done?”
“I will. I promise.” I put Saint Saviour on loud and walk away.
Suzanne:
Haven’t heard from you for a while.
I hope you don’t blame yourself.
Do you want to come
and visit this afternoon?
I groan as I read her text, pausing outside D’Lish. I could just ignore the message and not deal with this. But . . . I should go visit. I remember the vision I had last time—what if it was a panic attack? I’ve heard of those. What if that’s what’s been happening to me? I push the thought aside; I can’t handle it for the moment. I message Alec.
Lark:
Want to come with me
to see Annabelle later?
Alec:
Dad just messaged.
He needs a hand with something.
Lark:
Course. I’ll be fine.
Alec:
Miss you already, crazy girl.
x
I walk to the hospital after work. When I get to Annabelle’s room, Suzanne opens the door with a puzzled expression.
“Is it okay for me to visit now?”
“Oh, I wasn’t expecting you—you didn’t reply to my message. But of course.” She twiddles the ends of her hair. It’s a girlish gesture that she doesn’t even seem to know she’s doing.
Annabelle lies in the bed, eyes closed, the machine beeping to the rhythm of her heart. The room smells of dead flowers. The flowers in vases around the room are the same ones that were here last time. Suzanne follows my gaze.
“It’s me. I won’t let them take the flowers away. I can’t—” Her voice cracks. “Sheesh, Lark, I’m going to stop crying every time I see you, promise.”
I sit next to Annabelle. For a while, we sit there in silence. Nothing happens. See. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Then I’m hit with guilt. This isn’t about me. This is about a very sick little girl and the fact I didn’t save her.
Suzanne stands. “Do you mind if I go to the washroom?”
“Sure.” I shift in the chair.
“You’ll be okay? I mean . . . after last time?”
“I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“I’ll just be a minute.” The room falls quiet again as the door closes behind Suzanne, and I match Annabelle’s soft breathing. In and out. See, I’m not crazy. Everything is normal.
From a jug on the bedside table, I pour water into one of the Styrofoam cups stacked there. I sit for a few seconds, listening to her breathing. Then I reach for her little hand. Her skin is warm, alive. A shiver travels from her to me. But I hardly notice: all my attention is on the Styrofoam cup in my other hand. The water in it is darkening, becoming browner, and rising. Water spills over the edge of the cup and is shockingly cold against my fingers. I drop the cup, and water spills over the cement floor, spreading rapidly. A few leaves and a long green strand of pond weed emerge from the fallen cup to drift into the deepening water.
I am stunned, paralyzed.
Then I feel a static shimmer in the air. Panic seizes me. I can’t open my mouth to shout. In the air beside me I see, as if through a window, another girl.